Dial 999
by TotallyGetsSpock
Summary: Sherlock faints in the flat. John calls Mycroft. Why is Mycroft sending him to hospital? Who's "V.H."? How have 30  people died? Who killed them? Sherlock must find the killer, after an attempt on his life, and the kidnapping of his brother.
1. Chapter 1

Sherlock sat in his chair, gazing at the skull. John had seen that he hadn't had a case in weeks- not a case that took longer than a few minutes to solve, at least. One case of insurance fraud where the owners of a jewellery shop had staged a robbery in order to earn the money that they would receive as compensation; a wife murdering her husband by giving him a glass of lemonade laced with cyanide- administered after she learned that he had been having affairs with multiple women for quite some time (the acidity of the lemonade helped to expedite and intensify the poison's effect); and one assisted suicide in which the man who had caused the adolescent's permanent paralysis was framed. Nothing at all interesting- idiots killing for boring reasons- nothing that John knew of.

He hadn't been eating and sleeping "normally". He had had nothing to occupy his mind, and when unoccupied, the brain demanded to be sated. Normally, he had good reason to ignore his brain when it suggested such things, and so he did, but when his brain decided that it wasn't being nearly forceful enough, he found himself falling forward, face burying in the carpet. Watson came back into the room, dropping the book he had been holding and rushing to Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes was simply not the type of man to faint. Watson observed that Sherlock's mouth was hanging open slightly, and that he was shivering due to cold. _Poor__sod__,_ he thought, picking Sherlock up and carrying him to his bedroom. Sherlock woke in the process, leading only to a bewildered stare, and subsequent glare.

"Unhand me. I'm fine."

Watson gave him a patronizing look, and retorted "So you enjoy face-planting into carpets, then?"

"Maybe I do. It's none of your concern."

"On the contrary, Sherlock. It is very much my concern. First of all, you are my friend. Second, my flatmate. If you're ill, you might be contagious. By diagnosing you, I'll save myself time if I begin to exhibit the same symptoms. And as a doctor, I must treat you."

Watson pulled back the sheets, laid Sherlock in his bed, removed Sherlock's shoes, and replaced the sheets. Instantly, Sherlock threw back the sheets and attempted to get up. Watson pushed him back down, shaking his head in disapproval.

"Don't move from this bed without my direct permission."

"And why should I do that?"

Watson left momentarily, returning with a pair of padded handcuffs.

"So... you'll handcuff me. I still have legs, you know. No, that wouldn't make any sense at all. You're going to handcuff me to the bed. By only one hand, that's a plus."

"I'll only use these if you attempt to disobey me. The next step after that is Mycroft."

"So? He already monitors me. I'm sure there are even some cameras in this very room... Mycroft doesn't scare me."

"Look, just don't try anything and... Who am I kidding? You're Sherlock Holmes. You could probably pick handcuffs, or slide out of them or something. But Mycroft would actually do something about it. He probably wouldn't send you to hospital- at least not a public one. Actually, I think I'll just call Mycroft now. He has more resources than I do- and right now, you're malnourished and dehydrated, as well as sleep-deprived. Yeah, I'm calling your brother."

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

The phone rang only once. Mycroft answered immediately.

"Hello, John. What has Sherlock done now?"

"Well, for starters, he hasn't slept or eaten for about a week, and just passed out. He's probably dehydrated as well. I know that I'm a doctor, I just don't have the supplies to treat him here. What do you recommend?"

There was a slight pause.

"I'll be there in three minutes."

John waited, watching Sherlock think of a way out of this, and trying to pretend otherwise.

"Don't do it, Sherlock. I mean it."

Sherlock scoffed. "You don't even know what I was planning to do."

"Uh, escape? It's obvious. Look, right now would not be a good time to try it. You're weak-"

Holmes glared at him.

"I mean that you're not at your normal strength, due to the malnourishment and dehydration."

"O-"

"Sherlock. Don't argue with me- I'm a doctor, I know what I'm talking about."

A speeding black car blazed down Baker Street, braking suddenly at 221B, the passenger not even waiting for the car to fully stop, almost being knocked over with the kickback, but catching himself and dashing for the door.

John heard the downstairs door crash, and heard a heavier man bounding up the steps, followed by several others. When the upstairs door opened, revealing Mycroft and his entourage, John was far from shocked. Sherlock was pretending to be asleep (he had done it to John several times prior). Mycroft stepped into the bedroom, waving at the team to tell them to wait.

"Stop faking, Sherlock. John, has he done that before? You don't seem to be shocked."

"Yes, actually. Even an idiot can figure it out."

"Apparently. Alright, well, let's get him off the hospital then."

"Oh, St. Bart's isn't far at all..."

Mycroft raised an eyebrow, and began studying his umbrella intensely.

"Do you honestly think I would trust them to care for my brother, John? No, no. He's being taken to a private facility."

"What private facility would that be, then?"

Mycroft smiled his dismissive smile.

"Private, and exclusive, dear doctor. No need to pry. You are coming with me. Don't bother locking the flat, it will be taken care of."

The umbrella was oddly still as Sherlock was laid on a stretcher, loosely tethered to it with soft straps, Mycroft presiding grimly.

Soon, Sherlock was carried out of the bedroom, down the steps, and into the back of a special ambulance that must have arrived very shortly after Mycroft did.

Once Sherlock was loaded in and secured, Mycroft and John both leaped into the ambulance to be at Sherlock's side.

"I don't understand- he hasn't had an interesting case for weeks. Why is he doing this?"

Mycroft gave no indication that he knew the answer, staring at the detective's still form.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N- "Why is this thing titled 'Dial 999'? Mycroft took care of it, _didn__'__t__he_?"

When Sherlock awoke from his drug-induced slumber, he began to take in his surroundings. Lower thread-count sheets, air vent blowing a bit too hard, IV in left arm, and annoying women chatting outside. A hospital. John hadn't been bluffing. Sherlock opened his eyes, blinking a few times to clear away the slight haze, staring at the annoying stickers on the otherwise terribly dull white ceiling. He then registered a rustling sound to his left and a large, warm object.

For the second time that day, Sherlock noted the furrowing of his brother's brow that so clearly indicated deep concern that he wouldn't express in the presence of others. Seeing the question in Sherlock's eyes, he answered it.

"She got away."

Sherlock rarely swore aloud, but if he did, he would have released a string of extremely strong expletives. He had spent a week hunting the woman- a relentless woman who could not become aware of his investigation, or he would lose the trail for too long, and risk losing her altogether. The previous detectives (mostly DI's) that had investigated the case previously all went missing when any word of it reached the ears of any other person, save the detectives themselves. Only those who posed a potential threat were targeted.

The woman was responsible for the torture and subsequent death of over 30 people. The only known fact was that her initials were V. H.. Both Holmes brothers, however, did understand exactly who she was and what she had become- the animal who no longer resembled the magnificent Victoria Holmes. Victoria was Irene Adler's sister, and had married a man named Holmes (of no relation to the Holmes brothers), merely to spite them, then murdered him- her first blood. Of course, there was no evidence, and she escaped arrest the few times that she was spotted, shooting every officer that had attempted to apprehend her, in the head.

"She's eliminated every- oh."

Sherlock came to the realization that Victoria would now attempt to kill him.

P.S.- More is coming. This is just to tide you over for a few hours until I can write more. Patience.


	3. Chapter 3

Mycroft sat at Sherlock's bedside, reading a book, trying to act uninterested in Sherlock.

"Mycroft, you know I'm bored. Give me something to do or I'm leaving."

Mycroft closed his book and sighed.

"Fine. You can work on the case- on the condition that you eat and sleep. I will be watching you, so you cannot pretend otherwise."

He procured the file. Sherlock reached for it. Mycroft tipped his head slightly and raised an eyebrow.

"Promise?"

"Promise. Give it to me."

Sherlock studied the notes, making several deductions as to Victoria's location.

"Pass me a pen."

"There's one right there on the bedside table. You can pick it up yourself."

Sherlock made a show of shutting the file, reaching towards the table, and stopping a few centimetres away. Eventually, Mycroft grew weary of the straining noises and handed Sherlock the pen. Sherlock began to write rapidly in the margins of the page.

Without looking up, Sherlock demanded, "Phone."

Mycroft, though realizing how ridiculous it was, handed Sherlock his phone, as well, which also sat on the bedside table.

Sherlock opened the browser on his blackberry, typing furiously and finding the necessary information on the locations of the bodies of all 30 victims, finding that they did, indeed led to...

Baker Street. He tossed the phone to Mycroft.

"So that's why I'm here."

"Yes, actually. If she had learned that you worked with Lestrade, he and the entirety of Scotland Yard would be at risk. I know she never read John's blog, but I've taken it down, anyway. I can't babysit all of Scotland Yard. That, and you needed to be treated, anyway, so..."

"Right. Well, you know that if she learns of your involvement, she will attempt to kill you, so we must go about thi-"

Suddenly, Sherlock's phone exploded, throwing Sherlock, who pushed his brother out of the blaze. Mycroft got to his feet and began beating the fire out, shouting.

"Anthea! Get a doctor, and have Sherlock moved to a more secure room!"

Sherlock was unconscious, but the contrition on his face remained.

"Sherlock?"

Mycroft brushed away some of the rubble as a team of doctors came to take Sherlock. He moved out of the way, staring into space.

"Sir?"

'Anthea' had approached while he was in his daze, apparently.

"Yes, Anthea?"

"Sherlock needs surgery. He has second and third degree burns on his arms and torso, first and second degree burns on his legs, and shrapnel has caused numerous deep gashes all over his body. You are his next of kin. You need to give your formal consent."

Mycroft nodded.

"I consent. Tell them."

Anthea nodded and dashed off.

Mycroft now knew what he must do. He loaded his handgun, and the rifle in his umbrella, and walked out of the hospital.


	4. Chapter 4

Mycroft informed the guards at the door that he didn't want anyone to follow him, and stormed away, personally driving towards Baker Street. He had to bait the trap.

He rapped on the door to 221B.

"Mrs. Hudson!"

She opened the door.

"Mycroft, dear! How are you?"

"Mrs. Hudson, I need you to leave 221 B. Stay in your flat. Lock the door. Or better yet, clear out, with all of your lodgers. It's a matter of safety. Do it. I'll have lodgings arranged for them, and for you."

Mycroft texted Anthea and had lodgings arranged. Ten minutes later, a caravan of black sedans arrived at the door to carry the lodgers and Mrs. Hudson away.

Once cleared, Mycroft wrote up an article about how he was investigating Victoria Holmes, then told Anthea to put it online, in the major papers, everywhere- under an assumed name. He took Sherlock's website offline, and put 221B as his address, stating it in the article.

Several hours later, he found himself face to face with Victoria herself.

"Hello, Victoria."

Victoria held a club, had a sheath at her left hip, a holster on her right. She was clothed in black leather that clung tightly, providing protection from any blow that her victim may attempt to inflict upon her. Her black leather gloves, boots, and hair band, added to her look. She wore a smirk on her face and leaned to the left, revealing a riding crop and whip clamped to her back.

"Hello, my dear Mycroft. I dare say that you'll be in need of a very skilled coroner once I'm done with you- do you think your brother's little flatmate would be willing to do your autopsy?"

Mycroft raised his umbrella, preparing to use it as a club, himself.

"Let's not mince words- I know you killed those thirty people, so I'm too dangerous not to contest. Shall we begin?"

Before he had even finished speaking, Victoria struck like a panther pouncing her prey, knocking the wind out of Mycroft, who struck back with his umbrella. Victoria seized it, and pinned Mycroft, exhibiting nearly super-human strength. Mycroft's eyes widened in alarm and he writhed under her, kicking out, and knocking her back. He then kicked her in the head. She seemed unfazed, chuckling at him, then throwing a dart at him.

Mycroft was at first surprised, then viciously tore the barbed dart out, creating a gash in his left thigh. He winced, then staggered slightly as the drug began to take effect. He swung at her, but found that he hadn't even touched her. Frustrated, he tried again to find the same result, knocking himself over in the process.

Victoria only smiled, approaching him slowly, letting each step resonate as she walked. When she was near him, she flipped him over with her boot and kicked him in the ribs.

Mycroft was losing consciousness rapidly, but attempting desperately not to, fearing what he might encounter when he woke if he did so. The flash of pain in his ribs registered- five ribs broken, four fractured. It was enough for him to finally lose his battle, his head lolling to the side.


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: But what's happening to Sherlock? We love him!

Here it is...

Sherlock lay in the operating room, heavily sedated. Shrapnel was being removed and gashes were being sewn. In the areas where the burns were the most severe, synthetic skin was used. Fortunately, he would definitely recover, and only a small portion of his body had been severely burned, badly enough to warrant such treatment. The explosive device in his phone wasn't large enough to create an extremely large blaze, but his injury would still be an impediment for a while.

(A/N: Time interval)

He was prescribed IV antibiotics, fluids, and plenty of morphine, which seemed to have less effect than it would on the average patient. He was covered in bandages, only his face and legs remained visible. His arms and torso were completely covered, although only small spots (relative to his skin's surface area) were so badly burnt that grafts were required. While all of the burns were extremely painful, the majority were first and second degree.

Sherlock slowly awoke again, the first thing registering this time being pain, nearly everywhere- simple, throbbing pain. He shifted his arm slightly, and winced at the friction, but was momentarily puzzled as to why some areas were numb, then realized that he must have received some skin grafts of a sort.

_Where__is__Mycroft__?_

He jerked up into a sitting position, then cried out and dropped again. He needed more morphine, or some other analgesic...

He pressed the call button frantically.

"Nurse!"

His voice was hoarse, and barely audible, but his call had been received and several nurses rushed in from the nearby station. A sedative was administered and he sighed at the stupidity of the nurses- a sedative does not relieve pain! He whimpered slightly, trying to get their attention, but they were retreating from the room, giggling about what they had watched on telly. If only he had his phone, and it was in reach...

Then Anthea walked past, and noticing that Sherlock was awake, came into the room. As she approached, she realized that something was wrong and rushed to the bedside chair.

"Sherlock, what's wrong?"

He tried speaking, but she still couldn't hear him. She handed him a pencil and paper.

Sherlock wrote as steadily as possible, though it was obvious that it pained him to do so.

When he was done, he handed Anthea the note.

_Agony__. __Bloody__nurses__sedated__me__- __nothing__for__the__pain__. __Sack__. __Need__analgesic__._

Anthea nodded. She understood him perfectly. She made arrangements for the nurses at that station to be sacked and for nurses from other stations to be moved to this one. For the moment, she had nurses from another nearby station attend to Sherlock.

"Hold on, Sherlock. They're on their way."

Sherlock nodded, trying his best to put on a brave face, and performing some breathing exercises. Finally, the nurses arrived. Anthea reported.

"The patient has a high tolerance for morphine. A larger dose is required."

The oldest nurse nodded, administering the morphine. Sherlock sighed in relief, and nodded in thanks. The nurses exited.

"Sherlock? Do you need a glass of water? I don't mean to offend you, but I'll help you drink it. You are very badly burnt."

Sherlock nodded. Anthea poured a glass of water for Sherlock, helped him up slightly, and tilted the glass for him. He waved his left hand when he was finished and she sat down the glass and eased him back down.

Sherlock cleared his throat and tried speaking again.

"Thank you. Where's John? He came with us..."

"I haven't seen him since Baker Street."

"Since- oh God..."

Anthea became deeply concerned.

"Sherlock? What are you implying?"

"Victoria has John. And where's Mycroft?"

"He left."

"No. She can't have... Anthea, I need some clothes. I need to get out of here- Mycroft and John have been kidnapped by Victoria Holmes, a serial killer who targets people who are potential threats to her. No, she is of no relation to me; however, she is extremely dangerous. She has brutally murdered thirty people, if not thirty-two."

Anthea stiffened.

"Sherlock, you can't go after her. She'll kill you in your condition."

"I'm the only one who can find her, and if I don't, she may kill more than just one person more. Now, I have to leave!"

Anthea understood Holmes stubbornness, having a Holmes as a boss, and knew that he was right.

"I'll find you some clothes. But how are you going to withstand the pain?"

Sherlock opened a drawer in the bedside table, extracting a syringe filled with morphine.

"If the pain worsens, I'll use more."

While Anthea did not approve, she left for Baker Street, procuring an outfit from the now-damaged, but vacant, flat, and heading back for the hospital.

"Here you are. But there's no way you'll be able to change without assistance."

Sherlock sighed and nodded.

"Close the blinds. Lock the door."

Anthea complied immediately, then quietly approached Sherlock, setting the clothes on the bedside table, then helping him sit on the edge of the bed, untying his gown and helping him out of it without aggravating his burns. She handed him the fresh underwear, looking away to give him some dignity. He was able to slip out of them and into the new pair, surprisingly. Next, she held the pants out for him so that he could step into them, and zipped the fly. Then she helped him slip his left arm into the shirt, then went to the other side and helped him slip his right arm in, carefully buttoning the front and then helping him with the jacket. He nodded thanks and they made their way out, Anthea opening the blinds and handing him a new Blackberry. He smiled. _No__wonder__Mycroft__liked__her__so__much__..._

As soon as they were in the hallway, he began to speed up as much as possible, then paused.

"The morphine. I forgot it."

Anthea smiled and procured the syringe.

"I didn't."

They left the hospital, both smiling triumphantly until they remembered the reason that they were leaving in the first place, then sobering as Anthea drove Sherlock into the city.

A/N: This isn't the behemoth chapter that is due to arrive. I'm kind of building up to it. And now, people who love Mycroft and who love John should be a bit cross with me. Especially those who love John. I haven't written about him much, and then I let him get kidnapped by a _psychopath_? And John has been there for longer than Mycroft...


	6. Chapter 6

Mycroft slowly opened his eyes. Victoria had stripped him, and he was lying on a cold, hard, surface, with some sort of synthetic material covering it. He still couldn't see his surroundings because it was dark. The space was close, and the air was muggy and barely breathable. As his eyes adjusted to the light, he realized that there was a surface above him, a zipper splitting the surface vertically, with small points of light coming through. Conclusion: in a body bag, lying on the floor.

He tried to move his wrists, struggling against the tight, constricting binds wrapped around his torso and legs. As he struggled, he began to hear movement from outside of the bag- someone was walking towards him. He knew that struggling was useless, as the zipper was opened and he saw that he was bound with barbed wire and that any movement would result only in puncture wounds.

"Glad to see you're awake. Now the fun can begin..."

Mycroft examined his surroundings. The wallpaper was slowly peeling, black mold clung to various surfaces in the room, and the fireplace and its mantle were covered in dust, the walls covered in blood stains that had been wiped off, with little effect on the stains. Then he realized where he was- within 221 Baker Street, in one of the empty flats. It was the only explanation.

Mycroft looked back to Victoria, who now wore a sheer blood-red gown that fell to her ankles and clung lightly to her thin frame, with matching six-inch heels. Her lipstick was a shocking color of red, her eyeshadow black with black eyeliner, lips curved in her typical smirk. In her right hand, she held an X3 Taser.

Mycroft didn't react, merely laid where he was, until Victoria took her right heel and pressed it into one of his broken ribs, agony spreading from that point, causing him to shut his eyes and try to breathe deeply, until he realized that breathing deeply made the pain worse, at which point he began to breathe shallowly.

Victoria's smirk grew to an all-out grin. She leaned closer to him, her cascading dark curls touching his face, and what little light there was being blacked out by her shadow, as she loomed over him. She pressed the taser to his sternum and pulled the trigger, laughing maniacally as Mycroft involuntary writhed, then flopped back to the floor. She repeated this twice more, then pausing to reload as Mycroft lay gasping, attempting to control the pain aggravated by the involuntary movement caused by the taser. Once she reloaded, she repeated the process, throwing the taser away after the three shots had been used.

"You seem awfully bored, Mycroft. You know, Sherlock screamed after a few rounds of this."

Mycroft stiffened- had she really kidnapped Sherlock as well? No, she hadn't. She was clearly lying.

"You're lying."

Victoria sighed dramatically.

"Yeah, okay, I'm lying. But I do actually have John Watson here- does that interest you?"

"What have you done to him?"

"Oh, tsk, tsk, so _impatient_! Don't worry, you'll find out quite soon, I _promise__._"

Victoria winked, and trotted out of the room, grin still plastered to her face.


	7. Chapter 7

A/N: I do value your input, so if leaving John in limbo sort of bothered you and you want to know what happened to him (well, Sherlock's been wrong before, and Victoria's a true psychopath, who seriously gets off on making people completely devastated. You don't really know anything for a FACT, because everybody lies. Especially psychopaths.), here it is, basically. It's just an explanation chapter. Sorry. And it is seriously terrible. I really apologize... this story is becoming convoluted, implausible, and extremely hard to follow, and that is one thing a story should NEVER be. This chapter is bad, especially. In fact, if you think I should totally scrap it and try again, please let me know because I will be happy to do so!

John had been in New Scotland Yard for days now. Lestrade hadn't allowed him to go back to Baker Street because Anthea had instructed him not to. He was unaware of the situation (Mycroft had kept him ignorant of the situation because if he knew even an inkling of what was occurring, he would be at risk), but Anderson had become ill, and being the only doctor that Lestrade trusted, Watson was selected to treat him. (Sherlock had poisoned Anderson with salmonella, in order to make sure that he wouldn't show up at any immediate open and shut cases that he had taken to fool Watson, and maybe because he disliked him, just a little bit... Anderson was bright enough to figure out what was going on, after a time, and so it was too dangerous for him to be around. Better to have food poisoning than to be murdered by a psychopath.)

Anderson would be fine soon, but Lestrade made the excuse that it would be better if Watson could stick around with Anderson to observe him at the Yard. (Anderson would be staying at the Yard until he was well, since he couldn't afford to stay in hospital.)

Watson was terribly bored at this point, twiddling his thumbs as he sat in the poorly padded chair, rubbing his leg at intervals, legs swinging. He was beginning to understand Sherlock's boredom. Sherlock... was he alright? No one would tell him, including Lestrade.

After a few more days of stalling and Lestrade also discovering the food poisoning of several more officers, and starting an investigation of the source of poisoning that he allowed Watson to help with, Watson became quite frustrated with Lestrade, pickpocketing him, taking his Blackberry.

Once he had the phone, he texted Anthea.

How'sSherlock? -JW

John received a near-instant reply. How did that woman type that fast?

Goodtohearfromyou. NicejobonpickpocketingLestradeforhisphone, btw.- A

John took several seconds to compose a reply.

Thx. Answermyquestion. -JW

John waited several minutes for a reply.

Sorry- Sherlockhastakenaturnfortheworse. He'sbeentakentotheOR. Don'thavetimetotext.- A

Anthea wasn't actually lying, per se. He HAD taken a turn for the worse and he most certainly HAD been taken to the OR, earlier. She also really didn't have time to text.

John didn't quite believe her. She wouldn't have to stay with Holmes if he had been taken to the operating room, and she would have plenty of time to text.

After a few minutes of trying to deny these beliefs, he grabbed his coat, dashing out of the Yard, checking that he had his handgun and extra ammunition, as well as that it was currently loaded, and headed to the hospital where Sherlock had been, flagging down a cab, shouting directions at the cabbie, and slamming the door.

As soon as John arrived, he shoved money in the cabbie's face, running into the hospital and asking about Sherlock at the desk, finding that he had left. He texted Anthea again.

Funny. Nowtellmewhat'sreallyhappening. -JW

John, Ireallydon'thavetimerightnow. -A

John shoved the pickpocketed Blackberry back into his trouser pocket, and went to phone Lestrade, until he realized that it was Lestrade's Blackberry. He phoned Lestrade's desk instead.

"Hello?"

"I need a number traced."

"Why?"

"Because I'm fairly certain that the location of the cell phone is where Sherlock is right now."

"But Sherlock isn't missing."

"Just do it, will you?"

"Fine. What number do you need traced?"

John proceeded to recite the number, and in a few minutes, Lestrade replied.

"Got it! 221 Baker Street."

"Thanks, Lestrade."

John hung up.

Watson was beginning to understand the gravity of the situation, but didn't understand it completely, so he avoided making too many moves prematurely, merely getting a cab for Baker Street.


	8. Chapter 8

A/N: Not terribly whumpy, but if a seriously injured Mycroft disturbs you too much, stop reading this fic. As in, this chapter onwards, if you feel you must. I would prefer that you keep reading, if you can, however.

Mycroft hung limply from his shackles, blood dripping from lashes that the vile Victoria had given him. He heard a floorboard creak and attempted to sit at attention as much as was possible, wincing as the burns she had given him rubbed against the porous floor, and as he attempted to move many broken bones and aggravated dislocated joints, in the process.

She had whipped him, placed hot irons on him, stabbed him repeatedly with a small, heated blade, the wounds cauterising themselves, but agonisingly painful, nonetheless. When he was broken, she stepped on his joints, and usually laid the heated blade against the worst of the gashes in his skin, in order to stop the bleeding, and stomped out, the clicking of her heels echoing against the walls of the near-empty room.

After a time, she began to impose punishments- for falling unconscious (due to extreme exhaustion that she had personally caused), for struggling- even for twitching, at times. Other times, for no reason at all.

Mycroft struggled to understand why she did what she did, why she punished him. After a time, he determined that there was no other purpose than to bring her pleasure. She could kill her victims instantly, if she wanted to. Instead, she tortured them, slowly killing them. Her pleasure was short-lived, so she kept killing, over and over again, until 30 people had been killed.

Mycroft looked up as he heard a footfall unlike that of Victoria's- it was a man. He dared not speak, for it could be one of Victoria's associates, her pawns. Then he heard another pair of heels, but with a lighter wearer. Could it be...?

The man rammed against the door, trying to break it down. On the other side of it stood Anthea and Sherlock.

"Sherlock,"

Mycroft struggled to speak with his parched lips and broken ribs.

"I'm fine, Mycroft."

Sherlock and Anthea went to Mycroft's side. Mycroft procured a key. Sherlock smiled and hurriedly unshackled his brother, taking off his coat and wrapping it around his bare shoulders, taking his brother into his arms. Anthea's eyes widened.

"You were just in hospital!"

Sherlock ignored her. Victoria had returned, now dressed in her typical black leather garb, gun in each hand, and smirk gone from her face.

"Well if it isn't Sherlock Holmes."

"Actually, it is," growled Anthea, gritting her teeth.

Anthea took out her own handgun, but Victoria was too quick for her, shooting her in the hand and shin, then shooting Sherlock in the thigh and shoulder, nearly hitting Mycroft, before he grabbed Anthea's gun and shot Victoria in the arm. Victoria dashed out, Anthea in pursuit, but she couldn't keep up with Victoria's progress, and Victoria escaped their clutches. Sherlock stumbled, nearly dropping Mycroft, before reaching for his Blackberry in his trouser pocket, and phoning Lestrade.

"221B Baker Street. Hurry."

Sherlock felt his legs begin to waver beneath him, and rushed into his flat, laying Mycroft on the sofa, and sitting in an armchair, applying pressure to both wounds as best as he could. Anthea soon followed, limping heavily and holding her hand in the other. Now, all they could do was wait.

A/N: Wow, I seriously put a hurt on the Holmeses, haven't I? Goodness! Anyway, next chapter should be devoted to John, who is a terribly good shot, but will it be enough? And why is this thing titled "Dial 999", anyway? Find out next time in: Chapter 9!

And, as a warning, there will be a delay from Thursday to... Sunday? I have another obligation (other than you guys, you fantastic people, and I do sincerely apologize that I have to go. I will write while there, but I won't have 1. an Internet connection, 2. my computer, 3. my Blackberry, 4. someone to post for me, and no means to give it to them, even if I did.) I do truly apologize, and will probably finish this story within the day. I will start a new one as soon as this one is finished. Don't worry, I won't let your mind stagnate for too long, and I do hope that you choose to read my next fic, when I write it.


	9. Chapter 9

John ran as fast as his legs could carry him. His leg was aching, but he tried his best to ignore it. Goodness knows what could be happening to Sherlock...

Suddenly, he heard gunfire, and a woman was rushing towards him, down Baker Street, curls bouncing as she past. She held two guns. Watson made the logical assumption that she had fired the shots and attempted to stop her, blocking her path. After wrestling him for several moments, she slipped out of his grasp, bounding down the street. He fired after her, shooting her in the feet. She stumbled and fell to the ground. He dialled 999, then rushed to her, hauling her up by her arms.

"Alright, you scoundrel, who are you are what have you done with Sherlock Holmes?"

She snickered as her operatives stepped out of the shadows.

"Now why should I tell you that?"

"You honestly think that brought me down? This entire outfit is lined with Kevlar. I don't even have a scratch. Oh, but Sherlock? Your precious little flatmate? Mmm, well, he and his brother aren't doing so hot. But there's nothing you can do about it."

"Yeah, well, you can tell that to Lestrade. And your cell mates. Because I just dialled 999 and I'm sure that they've already traced the call. It'll take them a matter of minutes to get here. Oh, wait, sorry, looks like I'm wrong- they're already here."

John indicated the police cars surrounding them.

Lestrade stomped towards Victoria.

"It's over."

Victoria smiled.

"No, it's not."

Victoria dashed off, her associates firing their previously concealed handguns. The policemen ducked behind their cars. John took the opportunity to escape, crawling his way to the sidewalk and up to 221B. Once at the door, he stood up, opened the door, ran up the steps, slamming the door behind him.

"SHERLOCK!"

As he reached the top of the stairs, he took in the sight with horror. Sherlock and Anthea had been shot and Mycroft, although he hadn't been shot, looked the worst for wear. Mycroft had lost weight, was covered in burns, cuts, and bruises, had multiple broken bones protruding through his skin, and looked filthy. The poor man must have an infection, as well, judging from the swelling and redness of the cuts and the sheen of sweat on his brow... (Thankfully, Mycroft was unconscious, spared the pain for a time.) Sherlock was merely sitting there, his eyes glassy, applying excessive pressure on both wounds, but they were still bleeding- more than John would like them to. Sherlock obviously shared this concern. Anthea was breathing deeply, trying to remain calm. (She had only been grazed by the bullets, but it was still a rather traumatic experience for her, psychologically, if not physically.)

"Oh my god..."

John felt like he was going to be sick.

"John, could you actually be of use and get Mycroft down to the EMT's? I can hear the sirens."

Sherlock, even when grievously injured himself, cared about his brother. More than he liked to admit, but being that his brother was unconscious, and there was no conceivable way that he could assist him further, he asked John for help.

"I don't think it'd be safe for me to move him without assistance- don't you even think about it, Sherlock. Don't you dare move. I'll bring the EMT's to him, not the other way around."

John rushed downstairs and saw that the EMT's were just outside of the main entrance. He pointed them upstairs, and waited.

A/N: Hi! Annoying American Author has returned! I know, evil cliffhangers. It really is extremely obnoxious, and I know it is. But it keeps you begging for more, and that's the whole point. I need an audience that is large enough that I can have: people who have tips to improve my fics (I love you lot, although I don't always show it. You guys are my Watsons, and I really do like you, and need to show it more. No disrespect meant when I don't show that affection- you often actually give me fantastic ideas that I do use! I just want to thank you for everything that you do.), people who give me moral support (heck, you guys are awesome. I love you guys, too!), and the very occasional... person who gets on my nerves! (but I would regret it if you ever disappeared. I need someone to yell at me. Hurling insults can be a good thing. Seriously. It makes me write better to prove you wrong. Not joking. I mean it.)


	10. Chapter 10

After a few minutes, Mycroft was brought downstairs on a stretcher, proceeded by Sherlock, then Anthea. Mycroft looked small, not intimidating, merely the man that he was.

Under all the scars, he was still the same man, a rock, a constant. Even the horrors that he had endured could not change him, or so it seemed to the outside world. Internally, he was, of course, disturbed, haunted by his memories. Those memories, in spite of how hard he tried to delete them, often popped up at a mention of a word, a phrase, and for a time, he was in that room again, bleeding and broken. After a while, they faded, but they did not disappear. They were never entirely forgotten. He tried to pretend otherwise, and kept up his cool facade, under which an explosion was waiting to burst forth. Most of the world believed that he was truly fine, and left him alone at a time when he truly needed a sympathetic ear, an equal who understood. Sherlock.

Sherlock was inconvenienced by his injuries. He had to use a wheelchair for a time, only using crutches for the agonising journey up the stairs to his room, which he attempted too early, as John predicted he would, falling down the stairs, and catching himself, reopening his shoulder wound. Upon Sherlock's request, John stitched him up in the kitchen, as opposed to taking him to hospital.

The second that he was sufficiently recovered, he visited his brother in hospital- the same one that he had been confined to, which now had a superb nursing staff. Sherlock visited as often as John would let him, arguing with Mycroft while in John's presence, but being the supporting, loving brother that he truly was when they were alone. He wasn't sappy, merely gave Mycroft someone to listen to who could truly understand him.

John tried his best not to get in the way. He did all he could to ensure that Sherlock would recover quickly, even assigning Sarah to Sherlock-watch duty when he couldn't be around. Sarah approved, even agreeing to take a different shift in order to do so. Let it suffice to say that the padded handcuffs were used (and picked) quite frequently. Mrs. Hudson tried to check in on Sherlock every so often, as well, providing Sherlock with much-needed tea and his laptop when either trapped in his bedroom by his devious flatmate or his flatmate's equally devious fiancee, and on days when his wounds pained him.

Anthea was shaken by the experience, but it also strengthened her. She steeled herself further, preparing for even worse eventualities, knowing that if she had survived the most recent ordeal, then she was perfectly capable of enduring the stress that she knew would be placed upon her now that Mycroft's brother had that new companion, and was ready.

Time slowed for Sherlock. He became very bored, and when he believed he was ready, he asked John about physical therapy, and after a few months of hard work, he was able to leap and bound as he had before.

Mycroft fattened up a bit, and although rather sickly for a time, recovered fully, enjoying his posh life with a post in the British government, and being generally pleased with himself.

As always, however, it could not last forever.

A/N 2: Back from camp. I am so sorry that I forgot to post this before I left. This is, as you may have guessed, the final chapter of Dial 999. I thank you all for your feedback, if you provided any, and will see you very soon- that's a promise.

This story is ridiculous, fantastical, what have you. This is VERY true. Please note that this was made on request (doesn't have an account yet, just a sadist), and that any strangeness is due to this fact.

Lastly, as always, if something is getting on your nerves, just tell me. I am considering writing an alternate version of this story, because this one isn't that great, and I think I can do better. That's more of a "someday" sort of thing, and I'm going off to write something else for now, but if you want a fanfic written, PM me. Please don't put it in a review because PM's are more easily accessible, and I will notice them more (I do read your reviews, but I usually only read them once). It doesn't mean that I will write it this instant, but if you never tell me, it's unlikely that I'll write what you want.

Have a nice day!


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